


Poison Apples (Bad Boys Remix)

by alexa_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean/OMC - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holiday Fic Exchange, Hurt Dean Winchester, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, SPN J2 Secret Santa, Sexual Trauma, Statutory Rape, Teen Angst, Underage Dean Winchester, parental neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/alexa_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things like this don’t happen under a noonday sun when Dean should be sitting behind the bleachers at school, flirting with pretty girls because they see his eyes and they like his hair and think he’s cute, because his lips are soft and their lips are softer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison Apples (Bad Boys Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tifaching](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/gifts).



> Warnings/spoilers: foul language, graphic violence, heavily implied non-consensual sex. Possible spoilers for “Bad Boys” although I believe it’s a far cry from Glass and Carver’s version. The apple doesn’t even fall in the same orchard. I took my creative license to an extreme.

There’s no reason _not_ to make use of the bills in his wallet, yet he can’t help feeling it unnecessary. He has better options and Dean is an opportunist if ever there was one.

He is well aware of the true value of money: books for Sam and running cleats, sixty pills of codeine, rent, dental floss or horsehair thread for stitches. The difference between walking on eggshells around his father, or earning a lazy smile at the end of a successful hunt.

It’s the difference between an empty stomach and a full one.

So he’s always looking to supplement their allowance well before it becomes a problem. He picks pockets. Breaks into people’s homes during holidays, or when they’re off visiting family or on a trip to the cabins on Lake Flower.

Dean can double the amount easily with a poker game. All he has to do is walk out of a grocery store with a loaf of sliced bread and a peanut butter jar.

He’s out the door, foot on the threshold of stepping out from sidewalk to the asphalt of the parking lot when a hand closes hard over his shoulder. He doesn’t turn around and he doesn’t drop his load of groceries. What he does do is shrug violently, but the grip on his denim jacket, too baggy at his age, is firm and well practiced.

_“Where do you think you’re going, boy?”_

***

The cop had been waiting for Dean outside, a man with sharp, white teeth and an easy smile. A man in royal blue and a slick, black-and-white car with a cage wearing Dean’s name in the back seat.

Dean fogs up the glass as he watches the officer fill out a report with the store clerk. Dean knows without knowing that he would have ended up here even _without_ an offense.

Dean had walked into the store _already_ a target.

Skeevy men like this seem to find Dean and it’s crazy that there are so many of them out there. Monsters that harm in an unseen way-- an under the skin way. Lives spent stalking and seeking favorable circumstances to attack.

This guy is not a good guy. He’s not about making a difference in communities rife with misfortune. He’s in it for power and the abuse it facilitates. In it to feed his sickness.

Dean can all but taste the intent in the back of his throat, hot and bitter, like saltwater, can feel the phantom surge of the rising bile that comes with it. Dean’s not screwed yet. He may be backed into a corner but he’s not yet pinned.

He rolls onto his back, squirming and popping his shoulders to swing his arms forward over his bent legs, getting his hands in front of him.

The tension in the air is suffocating, but it holds him steady, closing in on him from all sides to keep him from shaking. He pushes his fingers into the crevices in the leather upholstery, searching for anything he can use to pick a lock.

When he comes up with a hairpin, he fights the impulse to whoop, taking it between his teeth. With a pulse and a snick his cuffs come undone, but he knows better than to make it known. So he sits on his hands when the cop approaches the car.

He doesn’t open Dean’s door, nor does he ask any questions, just slides in behind the steering wheel. He glances at Dean through the rearview mirror however and Dean’s hair rises as he hides his face behind his yellow bangs. He doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want to be so openly appreciated like a colt at auction.

Its unnatural how time seems to slow down when you’re faced with punishment. How every detail is thoroughly examined. The buttons missing on his flannel shirt, the hole in the sole of his shoe, the way sitting on his hands is making his palms sweat and the leather slippery as he’s jostled with every too-sharp turn.

His beating heart in his throat, his lip gnawed bloody, his breath burning in his lungs as they exit from the highway into Bumfuck, Nowhere, population zero, is what triggers a rush of adrenaline.

The path is tree-lined; familiar only to two sets of tires and Dean’s pretty sure he’s in the only car sporting them. When they stop, Dean scuffles his feet nervously in the foot well. No houses, no campers.

Searching through his glove box the man says, “I think you know where this is going. Smart boy like you. You cooperate and we can pretend none of this ever happened.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You get a ride to the station.”

Dean hums, struggling to sound neutral. Dean is not _anyone’s_ bitch.  

All he needs is an open door to prove it. He’s been through this once before— _pretty boys shouldn’t be left alone for days. Social workers could come by any day now—_ but he’s old enough now to have learned a thing or two.

He’s not sucking this guy off. He’s _not_. Fuck that.

Dean is ready when the door opens, smile on full view, pretty and sly, lashes lowered to cover his watchful gaze. Dean doesn’t tremble and his mouth doesn’t go dry like he’s chewing on cotton balls. He thinks _soft_ and he thinks _dangerous_. He thinks he should be both things at once, for it to work.

“ _You’re so pretty_ ,” Dean hears and Dean reminds himself of the man John expects him to be, the man Sam _needs_ him to be.

When his feet touch earth, Dean lunges, full weight of his slight body behind his fist like his Daddy taught him.  It lands with a satisfying thud and he stumbles, but rights himself quick. Dean has never been clumsy.

“Fuck!” The guy curses, a hand over his eye.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat even when the man’s unoccupied hand catches hold of his collar, denim falling away from his outstretched arms.

A thicket of low-lying branches stops Dean in his tracks and he’s frantic now because there are footsteps behind him, fast and heavy and he’s got to get away. Has to do something, anything except stand there.

Dean needs a break: a trail of scattered red leaves and needles, but all he finds are shadows and clouds of weeping shrubs. So he goes for it and dives into the branches, clawing as he’s clawed, pulling himself forward as limbs tear at his clothes and skin.

He screams when a hand cuffs his ankle. Screams until there is no air left in his lungs because there has to be someone, somewhere near enough to help him. To save him, _because his Mom is an angel and angels are watching over him_.

This is the one time John Winchester shows up when he’s supposed to. Dean knows it is. His Dad is a fucking hero and that’s what heroes do. They save the day. Even when they take their fucking time about it.

It's what makes sense. What makes the world go 'round. Good triumphs over evil. Just like in the comic books.

These forces, _this_ conviction, it’s what guides the sun.

It helps to know Dean’s Dad lives to save people all the time. That he hunts evil things, some with human faces and some without. This man, this cop with a shark's smile, he's messing with the wrong kid.

And he's going to know it real soon. He won’t be smiling anymore and he won’t be bruising the flesh of Dean’s spindly calves. He won’t be telling him to _relax_ and that he’s not going to hurt him, just looking for some heavy petting like Dean’s a puppy or something.

 _“Don’t touch me!”_ Dean spits, as he flails, no coordination in his panic, on his back now and holding onto a white bough by the skin of his teeth, bark breaking away in his arms.

“I know what you are! You’re a pervert! A fucking pervert! Get your perv hands off me, you freak! Lemme go! My Dad is going to kill you! My Dad is going to _kill_ you!”

Dean doesn’t care that he’s shrieking like a little girl because he can hear the echo of it carrying across the grass, can see the startled birds take flight. And that’s a good thing.

Besides, things like this don’t happen under a noonday sun when Dean should be sitting behind the bleachers at school, flirting with pretty girls because they see his eyes and they like his hair and think he’s cute, because his lips are soft and their lips are softer.

But the tree’s skin comes off like an orange rind and Dean is dragged away across pine needles and oak mast, across smooth stones and crab grass.

And the sky is senselessly, cloudlessy blue, and the sun burns away Dean’s vision, dark blue spots dance behind closed red lids.

It’s impossible to inhale as the man submits him, his big hands and his muscular arms holding him down. Dean’s small wrists crushed in his paw, the other crawling over his face like a giant spider, covering his mouth, sweat-salty, thumb and forefinger pinching his nose shut.

Dean bites. Or tries to, can do no more than graze the meaty palm with his teeth and scream and scream and scream in fury. In fear. Struggling and burning away all the oxygen left in his muscles.

The cop shushes him like he’s soothing a recalcitrant child, but Dean keeps fighting, because Winchesters stick up for themselves, because Dean is not a wimp, even though his legs are not yet long enough to put his grappling moves to good use. Because he’s on the leaner side of fourteen and an orphan and this _man_ with his strength and his broad chest, this _man_ with a gun holster bruising the tender meat of Dean’s inner thigh, this man with a blinding gold badge, won’t let Dean breathe.

Won’t let Dean go.

 _You’re beautiful_ , he says. _You’re perfect_. And _you’re going to like this. I promise_.And _it’s_ _going to feel good, you’ll see._

And Dean’s pretty sure it’s not.

He burns from the summer heat, from the streams carving careful paths over his temples, breaking on the shore of his hairline.

 _It’s not supposed to happen this way_ , he thinks, limbs growing heavy, taut strings slackening and a stranger’s hot breath over his face.

 _Dad._ It comes out a prayer.

_Daddy._

**

Sweat drips into Dean’s eyes. Not his own and it’s gross. He turns away from the straining tendons of a neck in his sight line, from the grunts and insults ringing loud in his ears. There’s a blanket beneath his naked ass and a crackle along his spine, tall reeds all around.

He thinks this guy is covering his tracks. Wouldn’t think of using the car. Too experienced to leave any evidence to weigh the scales against his favor in the court of law. Circumstantial. Punk kid with a rap sheet and an attitude. A cop with a flawless record. Dean knows this story.

Dean finds it a little much to be cuffed again. Like he’s going to struggle anymore. Like it’s not too late. Like he’s not already burning up with shame and pain like a demon cloud all through him. A twisting, bleeding thing like a furnace snatching the musky, nasty air of grown-up sex from his lungs in bursts.

He can’t help feeling like he has failed somehow. His father’s face, his disappointment, his tenuous concern; these things, quiet and unvoiced, ensure Dean’s complicit silence more than any threat ever could.

Fleetingly, pointlessly Dean thinks it’s unfair that he’s here when he hasn’t even made it past first base with a girl.

This man, with his bleached white teeth and his sweaty skin, needs to go. Needs to go _now_ so Dean can clean up and get over it. But t _his_ man, stripped of the status his uniform awards, stripped of his uniform and badge entirely, folded in the back seat of his car probably, this man with his fingers in Dean’s parted mouth, this man panting into his ear, causing pain Dean should be able to die from, won’t stop.

He won’t stop for a good long time.

**

“Your Dad stopped by and left a duffel bag for you,” the deputy says. “Says he can’t be here for your sentencing. Something about a family emergency out of state and having to drop your brother off at your Uncle Bobby’s. And that you should leave your messages with him if anything comes up. Or Pastor Jim.”

Dean is silent, toes the concrete floor. Whatever it is, Dean is sure people are dying. And Dean? He’s far from dying.

The guy must feel sorry for him because he says, “Don’t worry kid. You won’t be here long. We don’t get many juvenile delinquents in our small town and this place is no place for you to be in. Your court date is in two days. But I can’t tell you where you’re going after. You realize shoplifting would have gotten you a slap on the wrist, at most. But you evaded arrest and assaulted an officer. Those are felonies.”

Like it matters.

“Is my Dad still here? Can I talk to him?”

The officer looks at him long and hard and shakes his head like it hurts for him to do it.

“No kid. Like I said. He said it was an emergency.”

Dean draws his knees closer to his chest, huddling underneath a wool blanket. He’s hot, but it doesn’t stop him from shivering, from tucking in on himself.

His Dad doesn’t know and Dean can’t expect him to, especially since Dean is not volunteering any information. Not ever. And Dean is practically over it already. Maybe before the month is out he’ll be able to wear short-sleeved clothing again. Before the month is out he’ll be sleeping to the rhythm of Sam’s soft snores.

Sam.

Now there’s a thought he couldn’t bare and it fills him with certainty that his father did truly make the safest choice although the least favorable to Dean. Sam is well out of the county, out of state, and that’s a good thing.

Dean can take a lot. He’s learned that now, but he couldn’t take _that_ \-- seeing Sam hurt. So Dean counts his blessings and smiles, if a little wanly, back at the old, grey-haired officer, who Dean thinks is a lot younger than he looks.

“Um, can I have some ibuprofen or something?” Dean asks, because he’s pretty sure he’s developing a fever and he could use something for the pain.

The officer seems happy to be able to do something other than feel sorry for Dean, which is strange since Dean doesn’t feel sorry for himself.

Sam is safe and that’s all that will ever matter. Fuck knows what could have happened if Officer McCoy (Dean has a name now) dropped him off at the motel and caught sight of his little brother.

There’s a tray of food in front of Dean and even though he’s dizzy from hunger, he can’t stomach the thought of digesting anything, what it could do to him. Not that he could stand to lose any weight, but it would be the least of his problems.

When the officer comes back he holds out two pills. “I’m not supposed to do this, kid. I could get into a lot of trouble, but I can’t deny you look pretty pathetic.”

“Gee, thanks.” Dean kind of likes the guy, even though he can’t stand the soft way he looks at him. Dean doesn’t bother with a paper cup of water and swallows the pills dry with a grimace.

“I have a boy your age,” the officer says.

“I’m sure you’re not the only one.” What Dean doesn’t say is that he doubts it very much. Dean ages in dog years.

“You really are something else. Anyone ever tell you your mouth will get you in a lot of trouble?”

Dean shrugs, “It’s been said.”

**

“Your parole officer is on leave so guess who ‘s giving you a ride?”

Dean doesn’t panic. Fear only comes in the face of the unknown. And this man, Dean _knows,_ quite biblically in fact.

Dean wants to brush past the guy, searching for his smarmiest, most irritating grin as he holds out his wrists for the cuffs he knows are coming. There’s a coldness radiating all through him, an empty hunger squaring his shoulders and rendering his jaw hard as bone.

Officer McCoy clearly is not expecting it because he takes a wary step back.

So Dean says, “Don’t think for one second I’m going to make it any easier on you.”

**


End file.
